The Stained Green T-shirt
by madame.alexandra
Summary: When it comes to crying babies, even Mossad-Ninja-Warriors need help sometimes. Ziva admits she's struggling with her newborn, and Gibbs provides a little wisdom and perspective (and maybe even tattles on DiNozzo). Ziva/Gibbs; father/daughter. Established {married} Tiva. Companion piece to 'Whiskey Lullaby'. Tony makes an appearance. Fluffish humorish towards the end.


_A/N: As the summary stated: companion piece to 'Whiskey Lullaby' , although this one isn't so light-hearted and has a touch more reality to it. Being a new mother is hard, regardless of who you are, how old you are, or how prepared you think you are. And most new moms take comfort from the women in their family helping them if they need it. So, who would Ziva go to if she really needed experienced advice? ;)_

_*as usual for me: Tiva!baby is named: Anthony Leroy. _

* * *

If there were two things that were high on Leroy Jethro Gibbs' list of occupational annoyances, they were _rubbernecking idiots_ and _temp agents_. Given that he was currently dealing with both—their crime scene was in the middle of a street fair, and he was observing his temp agent struggling to put on a pair of rubber gloves—the persistent buzzing of his cell phone was a welcome interruption of his supervising duties.

He checked the I.D. and turned his back on the temp agent, rolling his eyes at her struggle. He took a few steps away from the noisy scene and lifted the cell to his ear.

"Ziva," he greeted gruffly, though his voice was pleasant. "Sure as hell could use you back," he remarked good-naturedly.

He heard a baby crying in the background.

"I may never come back," Ziva growled.

"Ah, don't tell me you like the kid that much," Gibbs drawled.

In return, she mumbled something that sounded suspiciously akin to _not at the moment_. He took another step away from the scene, pressing the phone closer to his ear, and listened a little closer.

"Gibbs," Ziva began calmly. "Is it possible for you to leave work? I am in need of assistance."

Gibbs frowned. He glanced around behind him, squinting in the sun. It was well into the morning, but it was already getting too hot to be at a crime scene. He had three agents here plus Ducky, and DiNozzo could handle the team—

"Well, yeah, Ziva," he answered easily. "If you need somethin'."

She did not answer right away, and he lowered his voice.

"You okay?" he asked warily.

"I am fine," she said curtly.

"Anth—"

"Anthony is fine," Ziva interrupted curtly. "He is crying for no reason; do not worry. I simply need…I am," Ziva paused unhappily. "Will you come, Gibbs?"

He nodded emphatically, and then remembered she couldn't see him.

"On my way."

"And—Gibbs," Ziva said quickly, her voice short. "Do not inform—Tony."

That request gave Gibbs pause. He wasn't entirely sure he needed—or wanted—to get in the middle of Ziva and DiNozzo having some sort of marital feud. He could sense that Ziva was less _fine_ than she professed, but he wasn't in the habit of sneaking around and keeping secrets for one spouse at the expense of another.

He rubbed his jaw, and she said his name again, ensuring he would honor her condition. He clenched his teeth and nodded to himself, and then told her gruffly that he'd keep it quiet.

He snapped his cell phone shut, shoved it into his jacket pocket, and left the crime scene without a word.

* * *

She opened the apartment door before he could knock, almost as if she had been pacing just inside, waiting desperately at the peephole. She had a look of fragile composure on her face as she gestured him in. He nodded in greeting and sidestepped her as he walked in and she moved to close the door.

The baby was still crying; he took that as a bad sign.

The door clicked shut and Ziva leaned against it, leaning her head back. He took a moment to observe her—wrinkled, stained green t-shirt that slouched off one shoulder, frayed gym shorts, knotted, messy hair, one sock—and he realized that she looked more tired, more abused, and more generally defeated than he had ever seen her—and he had been there when they pulled her out of Somalia.

She murmured something in Hebrew under her breath.

"Ziva?" he asked.

She stood straighter and moved away from the door, tucking her thick, curly hair behind her ears.

"He will not stop crying," she said tightly—though that much, Gibbs had already figured out. She lifted her shoulders in a shrug that seemed to indicate she was giving up. "I think he may be sick," she ventured.

Gibbs watched her for a minute, and then he turned and looked around the apartment. DiNozzo's place was understandably messier and more crowded; things tended to expand when a bachelor married and started a family. There were newborn items strewn everywhere, there were two laundry baskets on the floor, empty bottles on the coffee table, and a pacifier hanging off the edge of the flat screen television.

In his baby swing by the fireplace, little Anthony was red-faced and wailing.

"You check 'im for a fever?" Gibbs asked gruffly, turning and walking into the apartment a little more. He slipped off his jacket and laid it on the back of the couch, moving around to crouch in front of the swing.

He made no comment on the mess, and he was careful not to let his gaze linger too long on Ziva's personal disarray—even if it would only be a look of worry, he didn't want to provoke a tired new mother's wrath.

"Yes," Ziva snapped tersely. "Of course I checked him. He is my child," she growled at him. "He feels warm, but he has been screaming since he woke up, so perhaps he is," she stumbled for words. "Overheated."

Gibbs bit back a snort at the idea of a baby overheating like one of McGee's fancy electronics. He reached out and pressed his palm against the infant's head, adjusting his touch to a mere two fingers when he realized his big hand was likely to cover Anthony's face. He frowned, trying to discern if the warmth was fever or natural body heat.

Gibbs grunted.

He unbuckled the little straps and picked the baby up, ignoring the piercing crying stoically with practiced ears. He ran his palm over the baby's back and stuck two fingers in the collar of his onesie to feel his skin. He stood up.

"You take his temperature with your hand or a thermometer?" he asked.

Ziva looked sour for a moment, and struggled to bite back an angry retort. She looked a little guilty.

"My hand," she allowed. "I did not want to provoke _more_ crying."

Gibbs nodded, but he didn't say anything.

"I don't think he's got a fever," he said finally, shrugging. He adjusted his hold a little, so Anthony was lying right against his shoulder—still crying hoarsely. "He only feels hot where he was lyin' against the seat."

Ziva groaned, her eyes narrowing dangerously. She swallowed hard and lifted her hand, touching her cheek, and then thrusting it out at him.

"What if he _is_ sick?" she hissed. "It is not like he can tell me," she snapped. "Perhaps he has an ear infection, or a stomachache—"

"Well, then, take 'im to the pediatrician, Ziva."

"I refuse to be one of those new mothers who panics over every little thing!" Ziva retorted, her voice cracking slightly. She ran her fingers over her lips and looked at her son, her eyes red and raw.

She looked so, _so_ tired.

"There has to be something wrong with him," she insisted.

Gibbs arched his brows.

"You don't want him to be sick," he said seriously.

"No," she looked appalled. "No I—I wish him to stop that _crying_," she said, pushing her hand through her hair. She wrinkled her nose and closed her eyes, pulling her other hand into a fist. "He has been crying…he will not stop _crying_," she moaned hoarsely. "I feel like I cannot remember not having a screaming infant, Gibbs."

He frowned, sympathy washing over him. Instinctively, he held his hand over the crown of Anthony's head, trying in his own way to soothe the baby. Ziva watched him, and when the crying didn't cease, she turned and sat heavily on the couch, putting her forehead in her palm. Her hair fell over her shoulders and hid her face.

"I have tried everything," she admitted. "He is not hungry, he is not cold, he is not hot…a bath did not calm him down, a walk did not calm him down, the swing did not help—he cries so much," she said shakily. "He is so sweet when he is happy, but he is fussy and he is not good at sleeping," she complained tiredly.

Gibbs maneuvered around the items on the floor and lifted the pacifier from the television, shifting Anthony so he could coax it at his lips. The baby turned is head into Gibbs' chest, refusing to engage and screaming a little more loudly.

"He's been cryin' like this all morning?" Gibbs asked, arching an eyebrow.

She nodded miserably.

"Louder, if you can believe it," she remarked. "He is tired now, but it I still have not figured out what is bothering him—I have checked him for bug bites, rashes…I do not know what is _wrong_," she said desperately. "He is just a colicky baby, I think, but I am so—overwhelmed," she choked. She closed her eyes and covered her mouth for a moment, turning away. "I am so overwhelmed, Gibbs," she whispered.

Gibbs gave up trying to force Anthony to take the pacifier and walked over to the couch.

"Take him, Ziva," he said gruffly.

She pushed her hands through her hair and gripped hard, shaking her head.

"I cannot, Gibbs."

"Ziva—"

"Please," she said quietly. "I want to _shake_ him. I want to smash my hand over his mouth until he stops crying. I cannot hold him right now," she confessed finally, her words frightening and sad all at the same time.

Gibbs swallowed hard and stepped back, cradling Anthony more securely. He gave Ziva a curt nod and reached out to squeeze her shoulder reassuringly before he slipped past her into the kitchen.

"You got to give it a break, bud," he muttered to the baby, retreating to give Ziva a moment alone. "She's tryin' real hard. Don't have to give it the full court press," he added, opening the refrigerator.

There should be a bottle or two of milk kept in here; he knew Ziva was breastfeeding but he also knew there was always milk pumped and kept cold for when it was DiNozzo's turn to get up and feed the baby in the middle of the night—DiNozzo liked to talk about all of the details, loudly and proudly. Gibbs narrowed his eyes at the thought—it seemed DiNozzo was doing a lot of talking about the baby and not enough of paying attention to what his wife needed.

He found the bottles in the shelf on the side and pulled one out, shaking it up and turning to the microwave. After a few minutes of staring, he intuitively figured out how to use it and heated up the bottle. Anthony did not let up his crying, but Gibbs found it easy to ignore; Marine ears were good at blocking out unnecessary, annoying sounds. He pulled the bottle out, tested the liquid on his wrist, and arched his eyebrow in determination.

"Work with me, Al," he coaxed gruffly, using his and Ziva's affectionate nickname for the baby—a combination of the name Anthony Leroy. "Your mom's a mess." He nudged Anthony's mouth with the bottle, refusing to give up until finally, finally, the baby accepted the bottle and the crying stopped.

Gibbs held his breath, counting to one hundred in his mind before he let himself relax and cautiously hope Anthony had decided to give his mother a break. He waited another minute or so before he slowly walked back into the living room.

Ziva was reclining back on the couch. She stared at him with defeated, dark eyes, her lips curved in a thin line that might have been a relieved smile or a weak attempt not to burst into tears. He looked down at the baby, somewhat contently drinking the bottle, and made his way over to Ziva. He sat down on the edge of the couch next to her calmly, a mild, neutral look on his face.

She looked away, took a deep breath, and then looked back, her eyes on her baby.

"He stopped," she said hoarsely, her lips moving silently in a prayer. "You—he stopped."

She sounded so grateful, so beaten, that it almost broke Gibbs' heart. He didn't say anything; he wasn't sure what Ziva's mental state was at the moment, though he guessed it was pretty much defined in the word _disaster_.

Instead of trying to make light of the situation or comfort her, he just continued feeding Anthony, watching as the baby calmed down and his face lost some of its angry redness. He was bigger than the last time Gibbs' had seen him—growing fast, as all infants did. He blinked his big eyes up at Gibbs and then closed them, moving his feet and kicking Gibbs in the arm fairly strongly for a little guy.

Gibbs snorted, and Ziva gave him a feeble movement of the lips that may have been a smile.

Gibbs looked over at her.

"Go splash some water on your face," he told her gently. "Take a few deep breaths," he ordered. "Then come back, sit down, and hold this boy."

She nodded stiffly and stood up. Gibbs watched her intently as she walked away into the far reaches of the apartment, and then he looked down and raised his eyebrows. He smirked, thinking it slightly comical that this tiny little infant was capable of wreaking such havoc on the warrior Ziva David.

She was back after five minutes, and her face looked marginally fresher. She had pulled her mess of hair up into a knot on her head, and she sat down on the edge of the couch gingerly, looking down at Anthony almost as if she were afraid of him. She compressed her lips, and Gibbs studied her narrowly for a moment before he nudged her arms and passed her son over carefully.

Ziva took him and held him close, taking the bottle as Gibbs handed it to her and holding it expertly; as naturally as if it were an extension of her own hand. Anthony tilted is head away from the bottle, immediately turning his head into her breasts, and she held her breath lest he start crying again. With a firm hand, she had him retake the bottle, and though he fussed a little stubbornly about being denied, he accepted it.

She smiled, exhausted relief flooding her features. Gibbs himself smiled to see it.

She sighed and ran her hands over Anthony's brow, smoothing the thin, dark hair on the crown of his head and then puling him closer. She brushed her lips against his cheek and when she leaned back, there was a guilty pain written all over her face.

"I wanted to shake him," she murmured, ashamed. "I called you, Gibbs…I really thought if I touched him again…I would snap his neck," she whispered hoarsely. "He would not quiet for even a second and I am so tired…how could I feel so violent towards my own child?" she asked. "I cannot believe I thought those things...said them out loud."

She turned to him, her eyes red again. She swallowed hard.

"I love him, Gibbs," she pleaded. "But I almost thought I hated him."

Gibbs tilted his head at her. He leaned back on the couch and watched her feed the baby for a moment.

"Kids," he said thoughtfully, breaking the silence gruffly. "Kids'll do that to you," he muttered. He remembered how Kelly used to be able to blithely drive himself and Shannon to such anger that they'd have to send her to her room just to keep from hitting her. He shrugged. "You wouldn't hurt 'im, Ziva. You just needed a break."

"I am supposed to sense why he is crying," she said hoarsely. "I hear women say the mother knows what each little cry means but I…I do not always know. I am wrong as often as I am right," her voice broke. "He depends on me to care for him and I…I do not think I am coming through."

"Ah, Ziva—" Gibbs started lightly.

"I am serious, Gibbs," she said, turning to him with those defeated, overwhelmed eyes. "I have never felt so unsure of myself. I knew this would be hard but—this is _hard_," she said softly. "I miss my mother terribly," Ziva admitted in a small voice. "I have not wished for my mother so much since I was a child. I should _have_ my _mother_ to call when I do not know what to do." Ziva bit her lip, and shrugged her shoulders. "I—I do not have anyone, Gibbs."

He reached over and squeezed her shoulder silently, letting her words settle in for a moment. He waited a decent amount of time, and then cleared his throat and caught her eye pointedly.

"Tony," he said simply.

Her shoulders shook. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back heavily, breathing out shakily.

"That is not what I mean," she said tensely. "I know I have Tony. He is a good father. I mean that I…Tony is just as inexperienced as I am. We are learning…there is no one to help us."

"Hey, you got the team," Gibbs said gruffly.

"That is why I called you," Ziva said quietly. "You have been through this. You had a baby. You have—perspective."

Gibbs smiled sadly. He hadn't been stateside for much of Kelly's infancy—he had been deployed, and when he had gotten home, Kelly had been nine months old and very much past the stages of erratic crying and sleepless nights. Though—he remembered Shannon had spent a lot of time with her mother when the baby was new and she was alone.

Gibbs tilted his head.

"When's the last time you slept, Ziva?"

She shrugged.

"I sleep a little, here and there," she said. "He is not a happy baby, that is all. I have researched…some babies are just _difficult_," she laughed a little sarcastically. "Is it a surprise that Tony and I had a difficult one?"

Gibbs smirked.

"Nah," he agreed. He narrowed his eyes, looking at Ziva until she looked up at him. "Tony helpin' you, Ziva?" he asked in a low voice. "He need his ass kicked?"

She laughed quietly.

"He is helping, Gibbs," she placated. "He does his best…but he is anxious; he agitates Anthony sometimes, and he is unsure of himself. He does his part, Gibbs, do not give him a hard time. He needs sleep, though. He works—"

"He's been workin' overtime, Ziva," Gibbs said a little sharply. "If he's avoiding home or somethin', if you two need to work somethin' out—"

"He is working because we need the income," Ziva said tightly. She noticed the look on Gibbs face and shook her head. "Financially we are secure, yes, but we want to buy a house; we need to make a down payment, and with me on maternity leave," she broke off. "In Israel, maternity leave is paid," she said bitterly.

Gibbs frowned.

"It's a raw deal," he agreed gruffly. He rubbed his jaw and sighed. "Ziva, you need to take breaks from the baby now and then. You can't lock yourself up with 'im all the time."

"Tony said that," she said shakily. "He sent me out a couple of weeks ago…I was relieved, but then…I just missed the baby," she admitted in disbelief. "I get impatient with Tony, I want to have a break, but then all I do is fret about Anthony," she gave a frustrated groan. "I was tortured in the desert, Gibbs, and this infant is _breaking_ me!"

Gibbs laughed.

"Ah, Ziva," he comforted earnestly. "You're tired, you're nervous, you're leaning. You got a lot on your plate. Al's just goin' a little hard on you 'cause he's needs to know you'll take care of him no matter what he puts you through. S'what bein' a parent is all about. You just need to relax—"

"I cannot relax," she interrupted sharply. "The crying hurts me, Gibbs. It is a physical ache to hear him cry and be unable to fix it. I have this fear of failure hanging over my head—Tony and I cannot agree on things to make it easier; he thinks Anthony should sleep in our bed so I do not have to run around so much, but I do not want him to take away our time—did your little girl sleep with you?"

Gibbs looked at her heavily.

"She—was almost a year old when I met her, Ziva," he said huskily, controlling his voice as best as he could.

He jumped into fatherhood eagerly, without hesitation, but he had never known much about the daily lives of Shannon and Kelly during her infancy. He only knew the stories Shannon would tell, and in her retrospect, it was all humor and no misery. He did remember that Kelly and Shannon slept together often enough when he was deployed—but that was when Kelly was older, and scared he would be hurt.

"You probably shouldn't keep 'im in your bed," Gibbs said gruffly. "Y'know, takes the," he cleared his throat, "romance out of—things."

He noticed the glint of amusement in Ziva's eye at how uncomfortable that sentence was for him. He watched her a moment longer and then set his shoulders back, rubbing his jaw. Anthony was still going to town on the bottle, his eyes closed tightly. Ziva held him a little closer, and Gibbs decided to ask the pertinent question.

"Ziva," he said in a stern, paternal tone. "You're overwhelmed, you need a break, you call me—why keep this from Tony?" he asked.

She did not answer for a long time. She finally looked up and met his eyes.

"Because he thinks I am _invincible_," she whispered. Her eyes filled with tears. "I like him to think that. I do not want him to know I am struggling with the baby. My head aches, my body is still sore, I feel unattractive and dirty all the time…but I do not want him to think I am losing it. You…you already know I am not unbreakable, Gibbs."

Gibbs listened quietly, without interruption or judgment. He looked down, taking in Ziva's considerably disheveled appearance. He smirked a little, raising a brow.

"How long have you been wearing that shirt?" he asked, lightening the atmosphere a little.

She titled back her head and laughed—a real, happy laugh.

"I do not know," she said raggedly.

He grinned, but after a moment, he reached over and tapped her knee.

"Ziver," he said, using the moniker soothingly. "That night you left the baby alone with DiNozzo? He showed up at my house panicking 'cause Al wouldn't stop cryin'. I put whiskey on his gums to get 'im to sleep. He's not an idiot," Gibbs said sternly. "He knows you're havin' a hard time. I'm bettin' he doesn't know how to approach it without soundin' like he's accusing you of failing as a mother."

Ziva swallowed. She narrowed her eyes, considering him.

"He made a joke about me returning to NCIS," she said slowly. "He said he would take paternity leave…I jumped up his nose, I thought he was claiming this would be easy for him," she paused. Gibbs did not correct her idiomatic mistake—they were rare these days, and he figured the stress was making her slip. Her eyes fluttered. "I understand why he would be afraid of me."

Gibbs nodded. He reached over and took Anthony from Ziva firmly. The baby was sucking on an empty bottle, so he left her with that and settled the infant on his shoulder, running his hand over his back expertly.

"Two of you just need to work out a rhythm," he advised sagely. He tilted is head, catching Ziva's eye again. "You might consider it, Ziva," he said seriously. "Letting him take a few weeks with the baby. You come back to work."

Her brow furrowed; she pursed her lips.

"I do not know if I am ready," she murmured. "I cry too easily since the baby. Crime scenes do not sound appealing," she sounded a little on the fence, though.

"Consider it," Gibbs repeated, urging gently. "And put that overtime on the backburner for a month or two. Look, Ziva…you've got time to work for a house. You need to take it easy right now," Gibbs shrugged. "I'm sendin' DiNozzo home at five from now on," he growled seriously.

Ziva smiled, reaching up to tuck strands of loose curly hair behind her hears. She looked at the baby, nodding off to sleep against Gibbs' chest. She reached out and stroked his calm cheek, reveling in the peace and silence. Gibbs watched her look at her son for a moment, and then he cleared his throat.

"You take the day for yourself, Ziver," he ordered. "You shower, do laundry, put make-up on, watch soap operas—I don't care. I've got him," he said, pointing at Anthony's back. "If he cries, you ignore it. I'll take care of it."

The look on her face was so full of—awe, and relief, that Gibbs was almost wary of it. He half-expected her to launch herself at him and hug him like Abby did. To her credit; she did not. Ziva stood and leaned forward; she gave him a dignified, chaste kiss on the cheek.

"You do not think the team will mind your absence?" she asked.

Gibbs snorted.

"DiNozzo hates your temp replacement so much, he'll relish the chance to pick on her without me to stop 'im."

Ziva smirked in a catlike way, her raw eyes brightening. She bent low and kissed her son, and then she retreated. Minutes later, Gibbs heard the shower running. He leaned back on the couch and held Anthony in front of him on his knees.

The baby blinked at him sleepily.

Gibbs glared at him mildly.

"We weren't supposed to tell Ziva about the whiskey thing," he growled gently to the baby.

Anthony just yawned.

* * *

The apartment smelled _mouth-watering_ when DiNozzo got home that evening, which was his first hint that something unnatural was going on. It smelled like Ziva's delicious, exotic cooking—and Ziva hadn't cooked a _thing_ since Anthony was born. She was too tired and she just didn't have time.

He opened the door warily and slipped his shoes off on the mat, breathing in deeply. He didn't call out to say he was home just in case the baby was asleep. Ziva would murder him if he woke the baby. He wandered into the kitchen and there stood his wife.

He blinked, his mouth opening a little.

There stood his _wife—the_ gorgeous, confident, sly, composed, ninja Ziva he knew and loved instead of the exhausted, irritable, stressed, messy Ziva he had tried to take care of and understand for the past twelve weeks.

He cleared his throat.

"Uh, hey," he greeted.

She turned around and _smiled_. He hadn't seen Ziva so genuinely and easily smile since she had first held Anthony. She was wearing make-up and her hair was shaken out and shiny and loose around her face. Her clothes were clean and unwrinkled and she looked—

"You look hot," he blurted out.

She smirked at him, and welcomed him home with a swift peck on the lips. She pulled a beer off ice in the sink and handed it to him.

"Mmm," he muttered, breathing in the smell of her cooking. "What's cooking?"

"Sautéed vegetables and chicken in wine sauce," she answered smoothly. "And milk, for Al," she added with a laugh. "How was work?"

DiNozzo screwed the cap off of his beer.

"Your replacement is a moron," he growled, rolling his eyes. "Gibbs pulled one of his stupid disappearing acts this morning," DiNozzo explained, strolling out into the living room. "No one's heard from him, maybe he's dead—" DiNozzo stopped in his tracks and glared at his couch. "Or maybe he's sleeping on our couch with my son," he said loudly.

Ziva peeked out from the kitchen and walked up slowly. She slipped her hand over Tony's mouth and shushed him quietly. He pushed her hand away, giving her an alarmed look.

"You steppin' out on me with Gibbs?" he demanded comically.

She rolled her eyes and gave him a look, pulling DiNozzo to the side. It was then Tony noticed the apartment was sparkling clean—laundry done, the baby's stuff neatly put up—it all looked so fresh. He furrowed his brow, putting a few things together, and then he looked back at his wife.

"Ziva," he whined, frowning.

She put her hands on his chest.

"I am sorry," she said firmly. "I was overwhelmed. I needed Gibbs'—perspective," she took a deep breath. "I am struggling with the baby, Tony," she admitted. "He cared for Anthony while I—got myself together. I need," she paused. "More help."

Tony gazed at her, taking it all in. He shrugged.

"Okay," he said hoarsely. "You just had to ask, Ziva, I was worried about you…wearin' that damn green t-shirt for like two weeks—"

She punched him in the shoulder and he smirked. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, pulling her close. She pushed him back towards their dining room table and braced a hand behind them.

Gibbs cleared his throat loudly.

"Knock it off, kids," he growled sharply, not even cracking an eyelid. "You can't even handle this one."

He pointed seriously to the sleeping infant on his chest, and Tony pushed Ziva away guiltily, like a teenager caught with a preacher's daughter. In that moment, Ziva started to laugh—and then she seemed to remember something.

She rounded on Tony.

"You allowed Gibbs to give whiskey to my baby," she hissed wrathfully.

Tony blanched, leaping away from her. He scrammed over to Gibbs, backing away from his suddenly seething wife. How on earth she saw that as his fault and not Gibbs' mistake was beyond him—he swore he saw a shadow of a smug smirk on the boss's face as he pretended to innocently sleep on their couch and he furiously clenched his fist, unable to punch Gibbs because Gibbs was holding his son—so he settled for shrieking—

"You promised me, Gibbs! You swore on the bourbon you'd never tell her!"

* * *

_aww, gibbs and babies.  
aww tony and babies.  
aww  
babies_

_-Alexandra  
story #147_


End file.
